


No Place Like Holmes’ For The Holidays

by flaming_homosexual



Series: Sherlock One-Shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Lestrade Plays the Guitar, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_homosexual/pseuds/flaming_homosexual
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft go home for the holidays, bringing along John and Greg at the insistence of their mother. Post S4, E3CW: Mild suicidal thoughts, smoking, mentions of self-harm, mentions of substance abuse, mentions of blood and murder
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sherlock One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018105
Comments: 5
Kudos: 110





	No Place Like Holmes’ For The Holidays

It all started a week before Christmas. Snow glided down outside, coating the streets below 221B Baker Street in a deceitfully fluffy sheet. Pedestrians rushed by carrying single-use bags filled to the brim with toys, obnoxiously shiny red and green wrapping paper and assorted wines and spirits for their holiday celebrations.

Toasty warm underneath a tartan blanket, John Watson read to his toddler daughter Rosie. His arm rested protectively around his daughter, the other one supporting _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ in his lap. The Watson duo had nestled in for the day, curling under blankets and waves of hot cocoa to escape the cold. Sherlock had gone out for the morning, trudging through the snow to answer some questions Lestrade had on their latest case (not before kissing John goodbye, of course). Double homicide, so of course Sherlock was intrigued.

Speaking of, the door to 221B clicked shut downstairs. Rosie’s head perked up towards the door as Mrs. Hudson welcomed Sherlock with her ever-warm chatter. Sherlock shrugged off his coat as he climbed the stairs to their flat. Rosie stood in her father’s lap, nearly bouncing in excitement when Sherlock arrived. His well-practiced scowl of indifference melted at the sight of his two favorite people. 

Sherlock knelt down next to John’s chair, smiling with adoration as Rosie made grabby hands towards him. Knowing what that meant, he leant over and wrapped her in a secure, loving cuddle. Rosie happily jumped into Sherlock’s embrace, knocking both of them onto the floor. Sherlock let out a laugh, something so pure and genuine John wasn’t sure it was real at first.

The father’s chest fluttered. He’d always wondered what parenting on his own would be like, but thanks to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and the support of everyone around them he never had to know. They always made sure John had enough supplies, food, diapers, even watching Rosie for a few hours sometimes so John could catch up on sleep. He couldn’t be more thankful for the little family he had supporting him every step of the way.

Just as quickly as Sherlock had been pushed to the ground the moment was gone when his phone began to buzz.

“Sorry, John,” he said, gently plopping Rosie back into her father’s lap. She whined, watching Sherlock disappear into his bedroom as he answered the call.

Sherlock came back in, silently staring at his phone and nearly tripping when the flooring changed from wood to the carpeting of the sitting room. He finally looked up, locking eyes with John for a moment before his gaze narrowed and flicked back to his phone in a flurry of worry.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock sucked in a tentative breath, “My parents,” he said, “Want me—us—to visit for the holidays.”

•••••

That’s how they ended up in front of the Holmes’ parents’ home barely a week later. Bags filled to the brim with gifts and supplies for Rosie are tucked under Sherlock’s arms, John holding his daughter in his arms next to him.

As if they could sense Sherlock’s presence, Mrs. Holmes burst through the door with a wide smile and open arms. Her silver hair swept back in a neat ponytail, gently cascading down the back of her jumper. She opened the gate at the front of the house and nearly crushed Sherlock in a cuddle despite being more than half a foot shorter than her son. Sherlock stumbled back a few steps, reciprocating her hug and pushing down a smile.

“Ey!” A gravelly voice came from the door, “The family’s all here!”

Sherlock’s gaze flew to the doorway, meeting the image of Greg Lestrade, casually leaning against the doorway with a steaming mug as if he’d lived there for years. Long gone were his buttoned-up shirts and slacks, off-duty Lestrade stood in jeans and a well-worn jumper from university. There was no evidence of the creases in his forehead, only a lazy smile tugged at his cheeks.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock’s eyes flicked between his mother and the DI. “Come to spy during the holidays, now?”

Greg laughed, shaking his head. “I’m here the same reason John is.”

At that moment Mycroft appeared at Greg’s side, an arm looped around the DI’s waist. God, Sherlock had nearly deleted the fact that Greg was in a relationship with his brother. That was, of course, because he didn’t pay his brother any mind. It certainly wasn’t because he had walked in on them once snogging in a supply closet during a case.

Certainly not.

Sherlock shuddered, shaking off the thought.

Greg raised his mug in his and John’s direction, “Merry Christmas, you three.”

“Merry Christmas, Greg.” John, ever the polite fellow, replied.

Mrs. Holmes ushered them inside the small gated garden just out front of the house, rushing John and his sleeping daughter inside before they caught cold. Once a mother, always a mother Sherlock supposed.

The family (except John, who laid Rosie down in the other room to let her continue her nap) settled into the sitting room for lunch, chorusing a bunch of thank-you’s to Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft for making the food.

“Mycroft cooking?” Sherlock muttered as John plopped down next to him. Sherlock passed him a full plate without a word. “That’s a first.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “You’re one to talk.”

“Sherly, Mikey!” Mrs. Holmes snapped at her sons who shut up immediately, much to John and Greg’s amusement. “We’re here to have a nice holiday and I will not tolerate the two of you squabbling like children.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Sorry, Mummy,” Sherlock muttered, earning a snicker from John at his side. The genius resisted the urge to nudge John in the side only because he was distracted by John’s shameless laughter, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

John’s nearly all-silver hair sparkled like stars in the midday light floating in from behind the thin linen curtains. The joy in his bright blue eyes—which Sherlock now noted had flecks of brown sprinkled throughout—shone as bright as the sky above. John’s laugh, simply the most melodic and sweet sound Sherlock ever had the blessing to hear, made Sherlock’s chest swell and tugged at his lips, practically straining to remain emotionless.

Just as soon as the moment began, it was gone. From a few rooms away, the little cries of Rosie Watson echoed through the hall. John placed his plate on the coffee table but before he so much as stood up, Sherlock shot out of the room wordlessly to calm the crying child.

All eyes fell on the door after it closed. Slowly, the family’s gaze shifted to John, many eyes still widened in awe. Mycroft grasps Lestrade’s hand to make sure it isn’t some odd dream. Lestrade shakes his head, smiling with a sort of pride for Sherlock.

Mrs. Holmes turned to John with a similar expression.

“Does this happen often, dear?”

John just smiles.

Mrs. Holmes returns his warm grin, turning to her other son and his partner.

“So,” She drawled out in a teasing way only mothers are able to do with love. “Mikey, we’ve met Greg before, but you never told us how you met this handsome young man.”

Mycroft sighed, straightening up.

“My name is Mycroft, Mum.” He brushed off Lestrade’s snicker from his side as he muttered to himself. “As for Detective Inspector Lestrade and I, we met on one of Sherlock’s cases. Scotland Yard needed someone...higher up to access some information necessary to solve the crime. Of course, being Sherlock’s brother, I was the first person they contacted.”

“Oh, please,” Lestrade scoffed, teasing gently. “You make it sound so boring, darling.”

Mycroft grumbled at being referred to as darling, reddening nonetheless.

“Mycroft single handedly tracked down the murderer off an eyewitness recounting the events. Barely took him ten minutes and my division had the perpetrator in custody.” Greg snaked a proud arm around his boyfriend’s waist, pulling him close and placing a light peck on his temple. “Absolutely brilliant, he is.”

“As he loves to remind us.” A familiar baritone voice remarked.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, little Rosie held in his arms. She cooed, reaching out towards her father. The genius carefully came to John’s side, placing his daughter in his lap before getting comfortable on the couch next to the happy duo. Sherlock made sure to bring Rosie her favorite stuffed animal, a tiny hedgehog he’d named Martin. He animated the toy, walking it close to Rosie and cocking its head to the side when approaching the young Watson. Rosie giggled, reaching out for Martin and cuddling him close.

From behind Rosie, John’s eyes locked with Sherlock’s. For all Sherlock knew about human behavior, he couldn’t read John’s expression. 

“Not good?” He asked, guilt hung in the air thick as smog.

“No, you’re fine.” John’s eyes were fixed on the wall, but weren’t focusing on anything in particular. “It’s just…”

 _Oh_ , Sherlock realized. _Mary should be here. Not me._

Just like that, all the guilt Sherlock had worked through for the past several months with therapists and late night conversations and arguments with Mycroft came flooding back to him.

He killed Mary.

Mary should be here with her daughter.

John should have his wife by his side, not him.

Mary should be the one watching Rosie grow up. Helping her take her first steps. Having the pleasure to hear her first words. Mary should be the one experiencing all of these things, not him.

Not to mention explaining everything to Rosie when she grew up. Surely she would hate him after hearing how her mother died. He wouldn’t blame her if she did now.

Sherlock should be dead. He should be the one six feet under right now, but there’s no way he could change things. If only John knew how much he wished he could.

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s unusually soft voice snapped Sherlock out of his thought process, if only for a moment. Around him, his parents, brother, Lestrade and John all stare in concern. How long had he zoned out?

Sherlock cleared his throat, straightening out his collar and standing.

“Apologies,” he looked emotionlessly to his parents, avoiding John’s gaze at all costs. “I just need some air.”

•••••

The small crack of a cigarette lighter bit through the otherwise frigid silence of the neighborhood. The first inhale brought nothing but more guilt to Sherlock’s conscience, but he wasn’t sure how else to cope. He let out a long exhale, fighting off the tears threatening to spill over the edges of his eyes.

“I thought you’d stopped smoking.” Mycroft said, reaching out for a cigarette. Sherlock sighed, passing him the lighter as well.

“Thought you had, too,” Sherlock remarked as Mycroft lit up and took a drag, “I suppose we were both wrong.”

The brothers stood together, silently taking drags of their cigarettes. Mycroft examined Sherlock from the corner of his eye, trying not to be too obvious about deducing his brother.

The bags under Sherlock’s eyes indicated he hadn’t been sleeping well, possibly for weeks on end. His fingernails were chipped, either from picking at them or biting, either of which were good indication he was anxious. Around the chipped fingernails, bits of skin had been picked off from hangnails, a less noticeable form of self-harm. Mycroft’s gaze drifted further up Sherlock’s sleeve, noting the faint white scars carefully lining his wrist. He couldn’t help but wonder if there were any other, smaller circular scars further up his forearm.

Mycroft mentioned nothing explicitly, simply asking, “Do you have any lists since we last spoke?”

Sherlock took a long drag, closing his eyes reveling in the feeling.

“No,” he replied, “I wouldn’t do that to John.”

Sherlock threw the remnants of his cigarette on the ground, grinding it into the garden with the ball of his foot. His gaze stayed glued to the ground but he could feel Mycroft’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. He wished his brother would stop caring so much, it would make everything much easier.

“What happened, Sherlock?”

He played dumb. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You know what I mean,” Mycroft grumbled. “As much as I loathe to say it, brother mine, you make me quite worrisome.” He lets out a lighthearted exhale, “Poor Gregory thinks I’ll have a heart attack if this keeps up.”

Although Mycroft would fervently deny it, a wave of affection filled the atmosphere when he mentioned his boyfriend. The ease of their relationship always baffled Sherlock. The way they could know what the other person needed without having to ask baffled him, although that might be more of a social misunderstanding than problems with his relationship with John.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he was quite jealous of the relationship that his brother had with Lestrade. Their conflicts were always small, mostly meaningless things in the grand scheme of the universe and they always made up and had a stronger relationship than before they spoke. Their openness with one another and the way they would always stay by each other’s side is something Sherlock yearned to have with John, although he understood why Watson kept his distance. He’d hurt John too many times, and as much as John loved him he wanted to take things slow to make sure he didn’t get burned again.

Well. 

That was the first time he’d admitted that to himself. 

John wanted to stay distanced from Sherlock even though he loved him.

_Does he?_

Sherlock shook his head, absentmindedly hitting his forehead repeatedly with the palm of his hand as if doing so would knock all negative thinking from his mind.

Mycroft turned, quickly snuffing out his cigarette on the ground.

“Sherlock?”

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop thinking. 

Everything would be so much better if he was the one in the ground. John would be spending his days with the little family he’d worked so hard to have. It was everything John had ever wanted; domestic bliss. A house in the suburbs with his wife and child, a steady job, an overall easy, content life. Thanks to Sherlock he’d never be able to have that.

Thanks to Sherlock his wife is dead. John was kidnapped and held hostage with bombs strapped on his body by Moriarty because of him. He’s been drugged because of Sherlock. John has killed for him. He’s killed for John. Sherlock could handle the blood on his hands, but he felt bad for the blood that splattered over to John as well.

The thoughts all became too much. Sherlock’s breathing became erratic and shallow. Tears poked and prodded the edges of his eyes. He groaned, covering his face with one hand and clutching his scarf with the other.

“Shit,” Sherlock managed to breathe out before breaking into silent sobs.

Mycroft grasped his brother’s forearm to hold him upright. Sherlock ended up leaning into Mycroft, laying his head in defeat on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft held his brother and let him sob, the moment reminding him all too much of childhood when Sherlock would come home crying from school because some bully called him a freak. He supposed the protective instinct never left him after all.

“It’s all right, brother mine,” Mycroft whispered, running a soothing hand over Sherlock’s back. “It’s all right.”

“How is it ‘all right’?” Sherlock protested. “I got Mary killed. She’s-she’ll never get to see her daughter grow up. And now John trusts me to help raise her child? I just-I can’t…”

The brunet broke into another round of sobs, pitifully staining the shoulder of Mycroft’s coat. Truthfully, Mycroft didn’t have a solution to his problem. After all, there is no easy solution to something like this, so he stayed there holding his brother, tethering him to the moment he was in. Getting him out of his head and just focused on the people that are there for him in times like these. Letting Sherlock know that despite everything he is still loved.

They stood in the front of the garden as long as it took for Sherlock to calm down. Mycroft knew if he went back inside even somewhat in shambles they would be back at square one the moment he saw John and Rosie. 

After noticing his shoulders stopped shaking he tentatively let Sherlock go. His brother dried his tears with his scarf and looked in his phone’s forward-facing camera to ensure his eyes weren’t bloodshot.

“I apologize for my outburst,” Sherlock said, wiping his cheeks.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Sherlock.” Mycroft ensured him. “If there’s anything I’ve learned after Sherrinford it’s that we cannot stay strong forever. Letting someone in and...caring might not hurt as much as I said it could.”

As the cogs in Sherlock’s brain finally began to turn the front door creaked open in a slow, high wail. John emerged in the doorway, eyes flicking between the brothers.

“Sorry,” John says, “Am I interrupting something?”

Mycroft raised a brow to Sherlock, quickly scanning his expression. “Actually, I was just heading in. Need to make sure the drinks aren’t drugged this year.”

John cracked a smile as Mycroft passed him into the house. His expression softened at Sherlock who’s been kicking around a pebble at his feet the entire time.

“John, forgive me, I—”

“Sherlock, love, we’ve been over this,” John passed to Sherlock. “I know you didn’t kill Mary. Nobody could make her do anything. It was her choice.”

“But Rosie,” Sherlock ran a frantic hand through his curls, “She’s growing up without her mother.”

John frowned, cupping Sherlock’s cheek with his hand.

“There’s nothing we can do to change that.” John’s eyes remained hopeful, “But we can make sure she knows about her mother. Tell her all the incredible things that Mary did when...when she was around.”

Sherlock chuckled guiltily.

“How can you look at me like that?” Sherlock refocused on the pebble. “After everything I’ve done…”

“Sherlock, I love you,” John runs a hand absently through his boyfriend’s hair, “I loved you before I met Mary, and I still love you now. I loved Mary too, but I know she wouldn’t want me to mourn alone the rest of my life. Besides, there’s no way I could handle raising Rosie on my own.”

Sherlock chuckled, “You’re a wonderful father, John. You would handle it just fine.”

“That wasn’t—” John huffed with a smile, “Not the point, Sherlock. I don’t want to raise her alone.”

His partner froze, reminding John a bit too much of the day he asked Sherlock to be his best man.

“Sherlock?”

Quickly, Sherlock threw his arms around John, holding him against his chest, running his fingers through his hair. John, despite his shock, embraced him as well, reveling in Sherlock’s familiar chemical-coated scent.

Sherlock pulled back, holding John’s shoulders. “John Watson, what did I do to deserve you?”

“Everything, love.” John pecked his lips in extra reassurance. “Now come inside, I hear Lestrade has something planned for Mycroft.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “Embarrassing?”

“Most likely.”

“Why didn’t you start with that?” Sherlock dragged John inside by the wrist.

•••••

Luckily, John was correct in his presumption. Lestrade sat on the edge of the fireplace tuning Sherlock’s father’s acoustic guitar. Lestrade sat in the empty room, tuning the instrument in an excited frenzy. The DI groaned as the string once again rang out a flat tone, not aligning with the otherwise perfect tuning. Sherlock snuck into the sitting room, leaning against the wall ominously.

“What are you doing, Lestrade?” 

The DI jumped, nearly dropping the guitar.

“Christ, Sherlock!” Greg exclaimed. “What the hell was that for?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Bored. What are you doing?”

“None of your business,” Lestrade brushed off his comment, continuing to tune.

“Oh, I assure you it could very well be.” Sherlock grinned. He plopped himself down on the sofa across Lestrade, crossed his legs and tented his fingers under his chin. “You’ve changed since I last saw you. Discarded your jumper for a pressed button-up, so this is clearly an event you care about. You’re clearly going to perform a song, but seeing as you have no sheet music I can tell you have it memorized, either because you like it or it has sentimental value. I’m going with the latter off the fact that Mycroft isn’t in here as well. That also probably means that this is a surprise, or something of the sort, and that my parents are in on it as well.

“Why would your parents be in on it?” Sherlock mocks Greg’s voice, “I’ll tell you; it’s something that you needed them to be in on. You needed to make sure they were aware of the event before it took place because it impacts them as much as it impacts you. If that velvet box in your pocket is any indication, I’d say you’re going to propose to Mycroft.”

Greg stared at Sherlock, frozen in his spot.

“Bloody hell,” he ran a hand through his silver hair, “is it that obvious?”

“To an ordinary person, no.” Sherlock conceded.

Greg stood, discarding the guitar to rest on the side of the table. He paced the room, examining the black velvet box in his palm.

“Well if you know, then surely Mycroft does, too.”

Sherlock scoffed, “No.”

Greg stopped pacing, suddenly interested.

“How are you so sure of that?”

“Surely you know by now that my brother, although he would never admit it, is a bit of a romantic.” Sherlock cocked a brow. Lestrade flushed, smiling. “However, he’s not a blind optimist. Although it would be a realistic expectation, Mycroft would never expect you to propose to him, nor would he think you would ever consider it. It’s nothing against you or your character, Mycroft is often doubtful about those who love him no matter how much you remind him of your affection.”

Greg nodded, clapping his hands together.

“Case closed, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “Now can you let me prepare?”

Sherlock stood, “Of course.”

As Sherlock approached the door, he turned to Greg.

“One more question?”

“What?” Greg asked wearily.

“Would you mind if I assisted?”

Greg blinked rapidly, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock searched around the room frantically. He perked up and grabbed his old violin that rested against the side of the wooden piano pushed to the back of the room.

“Why would you want to help?” Greg scoffed. “You probably don’t even know the song.”

“John said it would be embarrassing.” Sherlock smirked, tuning his instrument. “As for the song, I grew up with Mycroft. I have no choice but to know all of his favorites.”

Greg invited Sherlock over with a sigh. “I doubt you’d know this one.”

“Try me.”

•••••

The rest of the family mulled around the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes swapping stories of Sherlock’s childhood. John listened with great intent, keeping an eye on his daughter in his lap, playing with Martin on his chest. Mycroft commented every once in a while, mostly adding more humiliating details to the tales of young Sherlock.

“You’re kidding,” John laughed, “he made you walk the plank?”

Mycroft groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Must you tell him these stories?”

“Mikey was wonderful with Sherlock as a child,” Mrs. Holmes cut him off. “Always willing to go along with his little adventures. Sherly had such an imagination!”

From across the room, Mr. Holmes brushes some dust off an old family photo album. He sits next to John at the table, flipping through and pointing out Sherlock in many photos. A stark contrast from the man he was today, Sherlock had unruly orange-brown locks that were commonly tucked into his favorite pirate’s hat. His usual sharp-fitted suits weren’t yet a thought to the small, grinning, jumper-clad boy in the photographs. 

“My God,” John gasped, “Sherlock was a ginger?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Holmes smiled, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “It only started changing when he was a teenager.”

Mycroft approached the album, leaning over his father’s shoulder.

“Please tell me you have photographs of teenage Sherlock,” Mycroft smirked impishly, “those are my favorites.”

“Mikey!”

Mr. Holmes flipped forward a few more pages and landed on a few photos of Sherlock, maybe sixteen years old. One photograph John particularly liked was of Sherlock looking out a window, presumably in his bedroom, deep in thought. A hand rested under his chin, he didn’t notice his photo was being taken. His ginger curls had faded into the sleek black John knew and loved. His ice-aqua eyes once full of curiosity and hope had hardened into the secretive, boundless pools of thought they were today.

 _Bloody hell,_ John thought, _even as a teenager he was gorgeous._

“Come on,” Mycroft muttered, scowling. “Did you only keep the good photos?”

John chuckled, noticing a photo in the top corner of the next page of a clearly drunk young adult Sherlock, mid-slurred speech with a bottle of vodka swirling in his hand.

“Certainly not.”

The faint angelic song of a violin being played floated into the kitchen, interrupting John’s thoughts. Along with the violin, the faint sound of someone fingerpicking a tune on guitar rounded out the tune. Lestrade’s soulful rock and roll voice fell into the mix and Mycroft nearly fainted.

Mrs. Holmes rushed to her son’s side, quickly throwing her hands over his ears.

“Mum what the—”

“Why don’t we go outside, dear?” She ushered her son out the back door, “It’s such a lovely day!”

John laughed at Mycroft’s weak protests as the door slipped shut. In his lap, Rosie perked up at the sound of the violin. She stopped squirming in her father’s lap and she stayed transfixed by the music, holding Martin up so he could listen too.

Mr. Holmes stood, motioning for John to follow him and to be quiet. John did as he was told, assuring Rosie stayed quiet too. 

As they made their way into the sitting room the song became clearer. Sherlock’s violin breathed a beautiful melody that Greg filled in with his guitar. The instrumental added an incredible amount of love and care to Greg’s vocal line. While he may not have the most traditionally beautiful voice, there was something about his gravelly crooning that was endearing.

John, as always, was transfixed by Sherlock’s playing. The way Sherlock’s body leaned into the sound, or how his eyes would shut and eyebrows raised when he played a particularly high note. It was as if the violin was an extension of Sherlock’s emotions. In short it was gorgeous. Enchanting, even.

It's moments like these when John realizes how much he loves Sherlock. The amount of dedication, sensitivity and care that he manages to pour into simple notes is nothing short of breathtaking. John has listened to Sherlock play so much he could probably recognize Sherlock’s playing out of a lineup after just a few notes. Sherlock swayed in time with the music, letting the world fall away as if the only things that existed were himself and his violin.

As the final notes hummed from the violin, Sherlock cocked a brow, his eyes still slipped shut in content.

“You can stop staring, John.”

Watson flushed at the chuckles of Lestrade and Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock set the violin down, silently winking at John.

Lestrade strummed a few more lines of music out of habit. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“Oh, he’s going to faint,” Sherlock smirked wickedly. “Where is he?”

•••••

Mrs. Holmes walked Mycroft into the sitting room, her hands held over his eyes to keep the moment a surprise. Everything went well despite Sherlock muttering that she should run him into a wall for the fun of it. That earned him a smack in the head from Lestrade, but to Sherlock it was worth it.

Mrs. Holmes sat Mycroft down on the couch across from the performers, next to the admittedly excited John and Rosie. The mother checked with her youngest son and Greg to make sure they were ready before removing her hands from Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in a silent gasp. He raked over Greg’s image, trying to capture as many details as possible.

“Oh no,” Greg said, laying a hand over the guitar strings. “I know that look.” Greg smiled, leaning over the guitar, speaking softly to his boyfriend. “Let your brain turn off for two minutes and just listen. All right, darling?”

All Mycroft could manage was a small nod.

Greg took a deep breath, grounding himself in the moment. He stole one last glance at Mycroft (who showed an encouraging, understanding smile) and began to pluck out the song’s intro. Within a few notes Mycroft recognized the song. It was one of his favorites from his teenage years. One song written by a man for a man that slipped under the radar because of its ambiguity.

Sherlock joined in on violin, rounding out the instrumental for Elton John’s _Your Song_.

Lestrade’s vocals floated into the mix, “ _It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside_.”

He smiled, not letting his eyes wander from Mycroft for a second.

“ _I’m not one of those who can easily hide, I don’t have much money, but boy, if I did_ ,” he shook his head, his lovesick grin growing by the second, “ _I’d buy a big house where we both could live_.”

John let his focus wander to Sherlock. The candles set up for the holidays cascaded light gracefully down Sherlock’s cheeks making him glow ethereally. John knew it was selfish, especially considering this moment was for Greg and Mycroft, but good Lord how could he not be focused on Sherlock when he was standing there and playing with a level of grace angels would be envious of.

“ _And you can tell everybody this is your song_ ,” Sherlock played a small riff between Lestrade’s lines, allowing the violin to sing out with vibrato. “ _It may be quite simple but now that it’s done, I hope you don’t mind_ ,” Greg chuckled, “ _I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while you’re in the world_.”

Mycroft let out a breath, unable to control the fond, soft grin growing across his cheeks. He cleared his throat, covering his softened expression with his hand.

Greg stopped strumming, leaving his guitar against the fireplace. He stood, approaching Mycroft.

“ _I hope you don’t mind_ ,” He took Mycroft’s freckled hand, helping him to his feet. “ _I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words_ ,” Sherlock held out the note as Greg knelt and pulled the box from his pocket. The music became drowned out by Mycroft’s gasp. “ _How wonderful life is_ ,” Greg flicked open the velvet cube, revealing a simple shining silver band. Greg’s gaze finally met Mycroft’s, the DI’s eyes welling up as he noticed tears in Mycroft’s uncharacteristically emotional expression. “ _While you’re in the world_.”

The room fell into a sentimental silence, everyone holding their breath waiting for Mycroft’s response.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Lestrade cleared his throat, struggling to hold his tears, “...Christ, I had a whole speech planned…” He shook his head, “You are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t imagine my life without you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met, and I promise I will love and cherish you until the day I die.” Lestrade chuckled, “I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. So, Mycroft Holmes, will you marry me?”

All eyes watched Mycroft, waiting for the man frozen in place to say something. Anything. His only reaction was the few surprised, joyous tears streaking down his cheeks adding to a watery smile.

“He’s going to faint,” Sherlock piped up, “I knew it!”

“Sherlock!” John called out his boyfriend. “Timing.”

“Sorry, do continue.”

Mycroft glared his brother down and then broke into laughter at how fitting the whole situation was. He refocused on the man on one knee in front of thim, leaning over and running a hand down Greg’s cheek.

“Yes, Gregory. Of course I will marry you.”

Lestrade let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He tenderly grasped Mycroft’s left hand and slipped the ring onto his finger in awe. Greg’s now-fiance’s expression matched his, Mycroft’s mouth agape in an expression of “I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-I-love-you-so-much.” Greg pushed himself from the floor, Mycroft kissing him passionately as he stood. Lestrade ran his hands down Mycroft’s back, letting them settle on the small of it as he ran his lips over Mycroft’s with vigor. The couple pulled away and embraced, pressing their foreheads together and breathing in one another’s scent as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

•••••

Christmas morning arrived quickly. The family gathered in the sitting room exchanging gifts. Mycroft and Lestrade happily sat across one another, the former unable to stop smiling every time he noted the ring on his finger. The newly-engaged couple cuddled close under a warm blanket, Mycroft pulling down the sleeves of Greg’s jumper from uni (which he’d stolen to keep warm).

Sherlock, John and Rosie all sat on the floor, the adults watching the excited toddler rip open her presents. The gift Rosie favored the most was a new plush animal, an otter John had named Benedict, much to Sherlock’s amusement.

“Benedict?” He’d asked, “What kind of a name is that?”

John snorted, “You’re one to talk, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Touché.”

John glanced around the room, happy to see his daughter introducing Benedict to the rest of the family (including Martin the hedgehog). All the presents had been opened but one, which he passed to his boyfriend.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

The aforementioned detective examined the gift. Flat, rectangular and wrapped in beautifully reflective silver wrapping paper, it gave Sherlock no clues as to what it could be. Sherlock brings the gift to his nose, inhaling a few times to no avail.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” John groaned lightheartedly, “Just open it!”

He ripped open the gift, furrowing his eyebrows when he noticed it’s a stapled pack of legal documents. Sherlock looked to John for answers.

John held back a smile tugging at his lips, “Read the last page.”

Sherlock flipped the papers, scanning the text for key words and phrases. He paused, re-read a sentence, and repeated. 

Legal guardian of Rosamund Watson. Sherlock Holmes. 

He once again looked to John.

“You’re serious?” Gone was Sherlock’s emotionless facade, and damn Mycroft’s comments, he let his emotions take over the second time that holiday.

John nodded, “Course I am.”

Sherlock pounced at John, crushing him in a hug that had them both landing on the carpet in laughter. Rosie approached her father and got dragged into the hug, Martin and Benedict being squished in as well. Sherlock kissed the top of her head, how he loved her so.

•••••

The holidays ended as fast as they came, and before they knew it, Sherlock, John and Rosie were once again crammed in a cab on their way home to London. The Watsons had fallen asleep hours ago, Rosie resting on her father’s side, John’s head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

They drove quietly through the night, the cabbie only playing faint Christmas music that flowed into the back nicely. A choir sang “Home For The Holidays” late in the evening. Although Sherlock usually wasn’t one for Christmas tunes, he glanced down at the man in his arms and the family he’d created and smiled to himself.

 _Yes,_ Sherlock thought, _I suppose there really is no place like home._


End file.
